Razorcake Issue #19

just up and leave, I can’t understand that. I don’tknow if it’s drugs or drinking or what.”“Yeah, that’s a shame Bud, she seemed likeshe was going to work out all right.”“Ah, I’m getting’ too ol’ for this.”About an hour and half later, Bud called meup to the chair. I’d just been sitting there goingthrough the Time magazines and watching thelazy flies move about. A lot of people probablywouldn’t wait around that long just for a damnhaircut, but down here, you just kind of dealwith it. Life moves along at a slower pace thanit does in other parts of the world. I figure,we’re all going to die either way, so what’s therush?“How ya’ wahn’ it,” Bud asked me.“Just short, but not too short, not a crewcutor nothing,” I said.Bud started to work away at my hair with abuzzer and through the mirror noticed me staringup at a framed Army certificate hanging onthe wall.“That’s from when I was in the PacificIslands. I was twenty. I remember every singlename of the eight other guys in my brigade.Jimmy, Frank, Leonard, Ray, Joe, Bobby, Dave,Eddie. You know, a lot of them didn’t make itout alive. Lotta’ times I didn’t think I wouldeither. Leonard was only eighteen. He was justa kid. Not a day goes by I don’t think aboutthose other guys.”Bud trimmed the hair hanging over my ears,every now and then stopping and staring offinto blank space, as if the thought was too muchfor him. I couldn’t even begin to understandwhat it must have been like for him to see allthose guys die so young.“I got back when I was twenty-two and fouryear’s latah’ I bought this shop. Eighty now.That’s a hell of a long time.”Eighty minus twenty-six. Holy shit! I nearlyjumped out of my chair and gave myself anunwanted mohawk. Fifty-four years! For someonelike myself whose longest stint of employmentwith the same company to date is a year,fifty-four seems unfathomable. I mean, justthink of all those heads of hair.“I wish I could tell some of those guys thatdied so young that hey, at least you didn’t haveto see yourself go bald.” Bud let out a quietlaugh and tapped the top of his pale-skinnedhead.“My wife was always convinced she wasgonna’ die young,” said Bud. “Her mother diedpretty young, well, fifty-two, had a heart attack,and my wife didn’t think she would make it pastsixty. And now you oughta’ see her. She’s seventy-eight.Just went to the doctor for her checkup. Doc ran all the tests on her heart and saidshe’s as clean as a whistle. Well, the way I figure,it ain’t really up to us. The guy up there,”Bud pointed his scissors towards the ceiling,“decides how long we stay or go.”I don’t put much stock in religion, but thesimple way Bud put it seemed to make sense.Sitting in the chair in front of me was anold, frail man. I guessed he was probably closeto ninety. He was all bones and his shirt andpants were three sizes too large. He looked likehe was about to drown in those clothes. Hiseyes were squinted as he tried to read a magazine.For some reason I couldn’t stop staring athis foot. He had these sandals on and wasn’twearing any socks. All of these purple, varicoseveins shooting every which way and running upunder his pants. As Bud cleaned up the back ofmy hair, I just sat there thinking about the mysteryof age, how the body wilts away.Eventually, Bud pulled away the apron andsaid, “How’s that?”I glanced quickly at myself through the mirror,and to be honest, the cut was a little lopsidedand I looked like I now had a pompadour,but I didn’t say anything. I got up out of thechair and paid Bud the eight bucks and left hima couple dollars for a tip. The frail old manattempted to get up without his cane but he fellback into the wall. Bud and I each took an armand walked him over to the chair and boostedhim up. As I was making my way for the door,Bud said, “Hey, what you say, Larry?”“Hey Bud.”“How goes it?”“It goes. You hear about Frank Jippers?”“Nah.”“Had a stroke just last week. Got out of thehospital yesterday. All paralyzed on the left partof his body. He’s in a wheelchair now.”“Ah, that’s too bad. So you wahn’ it thesame Larry?”“Yeah, Bud, same as always,” said Frank,brushing his hand through what little hair hehad left.I walked out into the New Orleans afternoonas the buzzer drowned out the voices ofthe two old men. I just stood under that crazysun and smiled, thinking, the simple story oflife, that’s where it’s at.–Seth SwaaleySETH SWAALEY